


An Angel in Westwood

by Keepers_key



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepers_key/pseuds/Keepers_key
Summary: John Watson was known to Sherlock to be a loyal, strong willed and kind person. Someone he dared call a friend.And John cares for Sherlock Holmes deeply, or…does he? Only one person could trick Sherlock Holmes and it seemed John Watson was just that man. He wasn’t the person Sherlock thought he was after all.Well, this is a turn-up…isn’t it?
Relationships: Jim Moriarty/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	An Angel in Westwood

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick story I wrote with a twist off of The Great Game storyline.  
> I use a lot of lines from that episode with my own twist on some.  
> Hope you like it!

John left the flat at about six at night, telling Sherlock he would not be home for tea; he was going to Sarah’s. Sherlock nodded at him in reply and went back to remembering the days thrilling events. The bombs, the threats, Gollum, and then people’s lives being put on the line! How very thrilling! Whoever this Moriarty person is, he very well knows what he is doing. Making Sherlock dance - entertaining him. Sherlock now sits in his favorite chair, his legs pushed close to his chest as he stares at the telly for a long moment. The light illuminates his pale features as the flat was so dark – he looks tired. He hasn’t gotten much sleep since this excitement has begun. His brain stirred with excitement and wonder for what could be next. What could Moriarty have up his sleeve? He bent down and pulled his laptop from under his chair, placing it on his lap. He pulled up a new window and typed “The pool. Midnight,” onto the screen. He knew what he was doing, and he was ready.

He entered the community pool only an hour later, being sure to waste no time. Lights beam at the bottom of the pool and make the near walls glisten with an aqua color - it danced. Sherlock stepped in further, his hands behind his back, fidgeting with the memory stick holding those beloved missile plans on it. It was quiet inside, only the sound of the liquid in the pool splashing on the sides echoed around. Sherlock looks around and spins, examining his surroundings.

“Brought you a little ‘getting to know you’ present.” His deep voice bellowed though the empty space he stood in. He holds up the stick, reveling it to whomever was waiting for it. “Oh, it’s what it’s all been for isn’t it?” He asks. “All your little puzzles, making me dance? All to distract me from this!” He shakes the memory stick at his point.

Silence was the response. His deep blue eyes search about the room as he spins once again. The silence is quickly interrupted by a crack of a rusty door opening to the side of him. Nothing happens for some time as Sherlock follows his ears and looks to the door. Then a figure emerges from the shadows of the pool. First thing Sherlock noticed was the man’s brilliant grey suit that hugged his legs nicely. Pinstripes make their way down the fabric and give the figure a smaller appearance. Buffed shoes cover his feet; his blonde hair is slicked back precisely. He walks only a few steps into view before looking up at Sherlock. His hands rests in his pockets as he extends his neck up, making his look become a bit darker. His soldier stance - tough. Sherlock’s breaths hitch as he notices the person standing ahead of him; he lowers the stick and stares.

“Hello.” He addressed Sherlock with a smirk.

“John?” It comes out as a horrified whisper. “What -”

“Well, this is a bit of a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?” He asks, stepping a bit closer.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as his brain stirs, the emotions inside him ramble in his chest and cause his breaths to become hard - rapid. “John, what are you…” He trails off as he watches his…friend.

John looks to his shoes and smiles widely. “You didn’t really expect this did you?”

Sherlock didn’t find the need to answer. “You’re Moriarty? There was a bit of disbelief in his voice.

John snickers, which echoes around Sherlock like a beaten drum. “Oh no, don’t be absurd Sherlock,”

Sherlock knew there had to be more coming, but his heart still felt a bit lighter. John couldn’t do this, he wouldn’t. He’s not…. like this.

John makes sure to give Sherlock complete eye contact, which was almost hard for Sherlock to accept. John’s normally bright eyes are…. hardened, dull. They nearly convey a pit, an empty space for evil thoughts to slither in and possess his brain. “I’m his…assistant, in a manner of speaking. He wants something done; I make it happen. Don’t you see?” He speaks in an obvious tone. 

Sherlock’s eyes scan the man ahead of him; he wasn’t the same man he knew back at the flat, back on all the cases they shared together. Not in any aspect. His heart ached, throwing his body into an emotion he couldn’t face, couldn’t understand. His legs went numb pushing his feet back to expand the space between them both.

“Where are you going? Don’t you want to know more?” John knew he wanted to know; he knew Sherlock too well. Stupid Sherlock, always trying to be ahead of the game - oh what a dangerous game he has gotten himself into this time.

Sherlock straightens his back, pushing his body length to its heights to almost intimidate the small man ahead of him. By taking a deep, sturdy breath he hoped to convince John he was fine, when in reality his brain and heart were stirring. John crept closer to Sherlock with quiet, looming steps. He watches the tiled floor below while he took these steps, he was in no hurry as he stepped ever so leisurely. His clean shoes hit one more tile before he’s inches from Sherlock. The curly haired man doesn’t move and stands his ground, fidgeting with his fingers again.

“It wasn’t hard you know,” John whispers and looks up, his face lingers close. “To play you - it wasn’t hard.”

Sherlock can feel John’s warm, calm breaths hit his chin as the shorter man inches even closer to him. He allows him to come as close as he wants but he looks ahead, diverting from John’s foreign eyes. John’s chest pushes against him lightly - he’s trying to tip Sherlock over the edge.

“The thought of you having a flatmate, a…. friend,” His words curl around _friend_. “Dare I say that’s all Sherlock Holmes needs to bring him down from his high horse, a friend. Who would have known?”

Sherlock’s eyes bolt down to John in a fit of anger that pulses though his body, he would never admit it, but his feelings at the moment were out of control.

“Oh,” John’s eyebrows prick up. “Did I hit a nerve there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, his head tilts back to give their faces some room. John’s small hand lifts slowly to Sherlock’s cheek but Sherlock responds quickly by grasping it, holding it away from him. “Don’t think you have outsmarted me John.” His words are a thick darkness. “I-”

John smirks, cutting off Sherlock’s thought. He doesn’t say a word for the longest time before a shining red dot hits Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock takes notice and searches around to find the sniper. John sighs and shakes his head.

“Sherlock,” He pushes himself up to come in eye level with Sherlock. “Get on your knees.”

There was a long moment when they just watched each other - Sherlock processing it all. Soon enough though, the red dot multiplies over his blazer and covers it with its own pattern. If Sherlock complies, he’s bowing to the enemy, if he doesn’t, he’s winning. What’s the choice? So, in a quick movement he lands on his knees, closing his eyes.

John places one of his hands in Sherlock’s curls. “I didn’t want to see you get killed. You did well.” He pats his head some and takes a deep breath. “You remember my friend, right? Jim?” He turns to a door and Sherlock looks in that direction.

“I gave you my number…thought you might call…” A high-pitched voice slithers around the humid room. “But you did have John’s number, so I suppose in a way you had mine.”

A man exits from a doorway, wearing almost the same thing as John - a silky blue suit and polished trousers. Perfect creases bend the middle and give the man a lengthy look. His ebony hair is slicked back, matching the color of his eyes - black. He had a bit of a sway in his shoulders as he walked in sight of Sherlock and John, his hands in his pockets. 

“Well, well. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It’s nice to finally meet you! I know John has told you all about me.” One of his eyebrows pricks up. “Jim Moriarty. Hi! Did you like our little game? Hm? Me playing gay? Jim from I.T. Did you like the little touch with the underwear? I know you did,” He exchanges a glance with John until he fixes his spot about three feet away from them.

John doesn’t move as he waits for Jim to say more, Sherlock still on his knees. “I’ve given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I got going on out there in the big bad world. Obviously half of it has gotten you to your knees. Nicely done, John,” He nods at the man ahead of Sherlock and he smiles.

“It’s been fun. No, really it has. This game. Watching you dance, just to have you wind up here in the pool Carl was killed at. Just to wind up learning about this…. this…betrayal of your trust.”

John looks down to Sherlock, he narrows his eyes as if to make Sherlock feel as insignificant as possible. John’s next words come out slowly, dragging across the moist floor to Sherlock. “The game is not so easily won when the villain is on your side. Is it?”

A heavy breath hitches in Sherlock’s chest, making him wince some. He’s been played, just as Jim wanted him to be. His emotions, his thoughts toward John weren’t real; he was only being thrown around like a puppet. The strings of which were naked to the eye and unable to feel.

Sherlock shuts his eyes, “No one has lost. I intend to fight. Even if you think I have lost, I can assure you,” He pauses to look to John, as hard as it was. “I _will_ beat you.”

John smirks at Sherlock, a smirk that cuts deep into his cheek - a liar’s smirk. 

“No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will, Sherlock.” Moriarty reassures him.

“I have.” Sherlock’s deep voice speaks quickly.

Moriarty shrugs some, “You’ve came the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay I did.” His shoulders push up close to his ears as he talks. “But the flirting’s over Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough now. I’ve shown you what I can do. I’ve cut loose all those people all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play this game. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear, back off. Even though I have loved this, all of this.”

“This isn’t a game! People have died.” Sherlock tries to hide the bit of anger rising in his cheeks.

“Why does that matter?” John frowns. “There are hospitals full of people dying, Detective. Why don’t you go cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?”

Sherlock can’t help but glare at the man as he quotes what he said earlier about the women with the bomb. Jim snickers and walks closer as Sherlock thinks quickly. In an amount of seconds, he’s on his feet and holding the gun straight between John’s eyes. John doesn’t do so much as flinch; he just continues to watch Sherlock.

“Oh!” Jim’s eyes grow wide with what looks like excitement. “Isn’t this just thrilling? Are you going to kill him? It surely would make things a bit more interesting if you did.”

John doesn’t look surprised at his boss as he so easily passes over his life like it was a piece of candy. Something useless to him, which more than likely, all John was to him was another toy. He was more than that to Sherlock, however. Sherlock was completely aware Moriarty knew he wouldn’t shoot John just by the cocky expression on his face at this moment.

“Wouldn’t it be exciting to see your friends brain matter spread across this wall like a masters painting!”

“Colleague,” Sherlock hastily corrected him. “He’s…. not my friend.”

“But he was. Wasn’t he, Sherlock?” Jim jabs back.

Sherlock opens his mouth as to say something, but his voice mutes and he finds his words have vanished. John watches him with those steely eyes. Those exact eyes Sherlock looked into just hours ago. They were soft then. They both wait to see what Sherlock will do, but he lets his gun down slowly. He could never shoot John. No matter what he does.

“Oh, what a shame,” Jim clicks his tongue. “Now you’re no fun.”

“Here,” Sherlock holds the memory stick up to Jim, his other hand still tight around the gun in his other hand.

“The missile plains!” He walks to Sherlock and takes it, planting a kiss on it. “Boring! I could have got them anywhere really.” He tosses the stick into the pool.

Sherlock watches as the black stick sinks to the bottom of the pool before he shifts his gun to Jim now. “What if I were to shoot you now? Right now?”

“Then you can cherish the look of surprise on my face,” He stops to open his mouth wide. “Because I would be surprised Sherlock, I really would. And just a teensy bit…. disappointed. And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”

Sherlock keeps the gun up before Jim nods and John responds by walking to Sherlock quickly. Sherlock turns but John has already slammed his foot into the back of his leg, making him swiftly crumble to the ground. The gun slides from his hands to Moriarty’s feet.

“It’s only simple to play a simpleton, Sherlock. What does that make you?” Jim quietly asks as he kicks the metal of the gun and it slides in the pool as well. He bends down to the gasping Sherlock Holmes. “Ciao Sherlock,” He whispers and then stands, straightening his suit and walking from the room, leaving John and him alone once more.

The pain surging through his leg wasn’t bad enough to rid him of walking, but the numbness in his brain and heart kept him down longer than that pain ever would. John knew the way he kicked him wouldn’t maim him, it was just to show him, express to him what he very well could do.

John stands over his gasping friend and stares at him some, cocking his head back and forth to examine him better. Then he places his shoe on the back of Sherlock’s head, pushing it down.

“I suppose I’ll see you at the flat then.” His voice is deep, dark. “Have a good night Sherlock. I’ll go get the milk.” He titters some before pulling his foot off Sherlock’s face and walking out the same door Moriarty did.

It…was…. silent.

********

Heartache: A powerful feeling of sorrow, anguish, or regret.

Something Sherlock hasn’t felt in quite some time. That incurring nightmare has brought it back quite a bit lately though, that feeling - heartache. It doesn’t matter what it’s about or what the theme is, John is always in it, and it always hurts. This nightmare tugged Sherlock into the air in an effort to gasp for the air he hadn’t been breathing for some time. The sheet around him clung to his sweaty body, his chest rapidly thrust in and out with harsh breaths. He looked around his room, but things were blurry, he found his eyes were covered over with tears, and some spilled over the edge. He wiped away the tear in disgust and flung off the sheets, throwing his long legs over the side of the bed. He slid his fingers into his hair and held his pounding head for a couple of moments while trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He has to go find John. He must convince himself it wasn’t true. He shook his head and shuffled into the kitchen - it was silent, only the presences of his experiments make themselves known across the kitchen. He then went to the living room - nothing. He heard his heartbeats as they slammed into his ears. He pulled his fingers across the nape of his neck where small curls kiss his skin, wiping the sweat off. The dark hallway to John’s bedroom continued for miles it seemed until his fingers were on the knob of his door. He swallowed, his saliva trying to maneuver past the lump still clogging his throat. He pulled at the knob and the door squeaked open, exposing a dull room. The smell of John still lingered in the air as he took a deep breath in, admiring the distinct smell. He flicked on the light showing the evidence of John all over the room. The desk was cleaned off as John liked it, the bed was made. The tea from earlier in the day sat cold on the nightstand. Sherlock took a deep, reassuring breath. So, it was just a nightmare after all? He wiped his face with his hands, attempting to hide the tears he never let leave his eyes, not often at least. He heard the flat door open and footsteps make their way inside and he looked to the doorway leading to the stairs. He heard plastic bags rustling in the kitchen and his feet moved before his mind could process.

“Oh Sherlock, I wanted to get some milk before you got up so we could-” He stops as he notices Sherlock’s expression. His eyes widen. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond for a moment before collecting himself, “John?”

John’s eyes shift in confusion. “Yes? Are you alright?”

“Moriarty,”

“What about him?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the man ahead of him.

“Did you have another nightmare about him?” John pulls the milk and carton of eggs from the bag.

“About whom? Moriarty? No. Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock quickly retorts.

“You’ve been having pretty bad nightmares about him lately. Are you sure that’s not the problem?” He places the milk in the fridge then removes his jacket and drapes it across his armchair.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock brushes off the comments like everything was okay.

It was just a nightmare; it was just a figment his mind made up. Yet surely he was too brilliant to think of that rubbish? Was his mind trying to trick him? Make him believe in something that didn’t even exist?

John shrugs him off. “Well, if you insist, you’re fine than I suppose you are.” He looks Sherlock up and down quickly. “Can you go put some clothes on now maybe?”

Sherlock looks down to his stark-naked body, just now noticing he is naked. “Why? I was born from my mother’s womb like this. Why can’t I walk around in my own flat like this? It’s partly the same thing.”

“No,” John shakes his head, smiling some at the absurd man. “Go put some clothes on.”

Sherlock grumbles but does as he’s told, surprisingly.

“I’ll just be here. Up-”  
  


“Updating your blog, yes I know. What else do you do?” Sherlock intrudes before shutting his door.

John grumbles and takes a seat in his chair, after getting comfortable he pulls out his laptop. Opening a page, he reads what’s written out:

_So? What does he think? – J.M_

Reply:

_I’ve convinced him it’s a nightmare. It’s getting to him pretty good. He was running around here like a madman when I arrived home. He will believe just so until you tell me otherwise. - JW_

Reply:

_Well done John. I would have to say I’m impressed, but you already know that. See you in his next nightmare. - JM._

Reply:

_I look forward to it. - JW._

He quickly wipes every evidence of that conversation from his databases and shuts the laptop, grimacing just some as he thinks over the plans, they have next. If only Sherlock knew. But as Moriarty did say, it’s only simple to play a simpleton. Sherlock proved to be just so.

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of making this a series but I wasn't sure if I should or just keep it open like it is and let you all decide what happens next.  
> Let me know if I should expand on this and make it a book!


End file.
